


You Were Always Searching for Something Out There

by yukonecho (yavanna)



Series: Heroes [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hero!AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yavanna/pseuds/yukonecho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Flyer rolls off his shoulders as he lands on the rooftop, striking a pose when he comes to a stop. Hell yeah, he is the shit.</p><p>Featuring Claude Giroux as the Philadelphia Flyer (in orange spanx).</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Were Always Searching for Something Out There

**Author's Note:**

> I recently read a few fics with Claude Giroux and looked him up, and 10/10 would become this dude, hands down. He's awesome, broken-golf-thumb (hahaha what a goof) and all. & obviously the answer to finding a new hockey player & pairing to love is to put them in every single favourite AU.
> 
> Title from [Adventure Club & Yuna](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09wdQP1FFR0). I also just found out that Adventure Club is Canadian, which makes this _so much better_.
> 
> s/o to [ukiyo91](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ukiyo91/pseuds/ukiyo91) for being partner in awesome, fic dealing guru, & inspiration buddy. )))

The Flyer rolls off his shoulders as he lands on the rooftop, striking a pose when he comes to a stop. Hell-fuckin-yeah, he is _the shit_.

He’s up past Temple University in Philly, in the back of the city, where the houses have bars on the windows and half the cars are up on blocks. It’s not pretty here, but it’s good enough for a lot of people. A house, a door, a roof, heating: optional? Yeah, not bad. Works for Claude. He got lucky; he’s not really sure how, but Danny--who’s loaded as _fuck_ \--took him in a while back and feeds him in exchange for babysitting. Claude’s taking classes and getting things together, and, yeah, his life is getting back on track.

Claude tries not to think about what will happen when he actually gets his shit together and moves out of Danny’s house. As much as he’ll never tell Danny, or the boys, or really anyone ever, he loves living with the Brieres. Claude feels like a fucking sap for it, but he feels at home, with a family, when he’s there; a weird combination of father-son that fits perfectly at the other end of the table, across from Danny.

Speaking of Danny, an added benefit of living with the Brieres is Danny’s habit of walking around with a towel wrapped around his waist after he’s showered. Claude’s almost too distracted to give him shit about shaking out his wet hair in the kitchen. Almost.

\---

It’s not the easiest for Claude to stay subtle when he’s out on the streets. In a moment of spectacular dumbassery, he had decided to make his uniform orange. Yeah, orange. Whatever.

Danny sort-of knows he’s the Flyer. Kind of. It’s not exactly been discussed, but Danny was up late working on his taxes one night when Claude came back from his “night classes.” (Night classes is right, because he fucking _schools_ the criminals of Philadelphia.) Danny had given him a look, and Claude had made faces back at him before he remembered that he was standing in the foyer in black and orange spandex. Aside from a few raised-eyebrow looks whenever the news mentions the mysterious Flyer, it hasn’t come up, and Claude’s pretty happy to keep it that way. This is something, he thinks, that he has to do on his own. Claude has very strong feelings about giving back to the city that kicked his ass into shape.

And tonight, Claude is on top of the _world_. He is a lean, orange, criminal-ass-kicking machine, and he’s stopped three muggings, nearly castrated a guy assaulting his girlfriend, and interrupted two car thefts. In the last three hours. Every time he calls, the police just get more excited. _Really, Flyer? Another? We are_ so _lucky to have you_ , they gush, and Claude smirks to himself. If they knew how he’d been living before he found Danny and became the Flyer, they probably wouldn’t be quite so excited that he’s in town. There’s a reason Claude knows all the criminal hideouts around here.

\---

Claude ducks back into the house around two-thirty--the boys have to get up for school in a mere four hours, and he has the dubious honour of making them breakfast and packing their lunches. But he’d gotten on a fucking _roll_ and forgotten about the time tonight. Claude’s not the best at mornings, though he’s not the worst, ‘cause hey, at least he’s better than Danny. Old man, Claude smiles to himself fondly. Likes to sleep, getting soft.

Though Claude knows ‘soft’ isn’t quite right. He’s seen plenty of evidence to the contrary in Danny’s post-shower habits. Claude pauses, taking a moment to appreciate the mostly naked routine, before sneaking in the back door. He’s got intentions with those thoughts about Danny and his towel and his skin and his hair, and they are clearly visible through the spandex of his outfit. He doesn’t want to walk through the living room, where Danny might be up. Not like this.

Claude darts in the back door, closing it extra-quietly, and turns to make a break for it down the hall when he crashes into none other than Danny himself, walking out of the kitchen with shadowed, sleepy eyes and tousled hair. Claude freezes, first in alarm, then because, god, Danny’s never looked more beautiful, with the shadows across his face and blinking awake from the impact.

“Hey,” Danny mumbles. “You’re back late.”

Claude smiles slightly. “I’m always back late. Night, uh, classes, remember?”

Danny shakes his head. “You usually get back earlier.”

“You stay up?” Claude asks, surprised.

“Mmm, sort of. You know, get up to piss, poke my head in and make sure you didn’t actually break anything this time.”

Claude’s touched. “My night classes aren’t that bad. At least, not for me. I pass them with flying colours.”

Danny snorts. “Puns,” he adds, and then the two of them are laughing, leaning against the walls of the kitchen and Claude can’t stop looking into Danny’s eyes.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he adds, quieter, when they’ve stopped giggling.

“I know,” Danny says. “But I do.”

\---

And somehow, it becomes a _thing_. Claude’s not sure how he feels about _things_ , but he likes this one, where Danny stays up to make sure he gets home okay.

“No, no,” Danny had said the next time Claude had gotten back and found Danny up with a mug of tea and a book. “I was just reading and didn’t bother to stop.”

But Danny always seems to finish what he’s been doing right when Claude gets back, and they grab tea and talk, stretched out on either end of the couch. He and Danny have always been good together--they get along, they’re decently compatible in terms of movie and music taste, and they have similar senses of humour. But now Claude is getting a chance to really get to know Danny. They talk about how Claude’s night went (he likes bragging about it, because, let’s be honest, the Flyer is fucking badass), how the boys are doing, how Danny’s day was. Claude learns about Danny’s divorce with Sylvie (a rough time all around) and he gets a chance to tell Danny a little bit more about where he comes from. Just a little.

They switch back and forth from French to English without noticing, sometimes, and Claude loves having someone to speak his mother tongue with. Fucking Americans, man, don’t appreciate the true art of French enough. (But Danny does, and Claude feels right at home.)

Claude starts keeping an eye on the time when he goes out as the Flyer--he wants to make sure Danny doesn’t have to wait up too late for him.

\---

Claude’s not sure when it becomes more of an actual-feelings-thing rather than a just-wanting-to-bone thing for Danny. Which seriously. What the fuck. But as soon as he admits it to himself, he realises that it’s not a recent development. Which, of course, just makes everything that much better.

Not that he wasn’t aware, before, about every time Danny’s feet brush against his on the couch. Or their fingers clamp around each others’ awkwardly when Danny hands Claude his cup of tea--Claude refuses to lose that one. When his hands are on the mug, it is his. No questions. Even if Danny’s still holding on to it.

Claude can’t help but wish that everything that the mug is attached to when he preemptively grabs it could belong to him, too.

\---

The fall goes on, and Claude’s very busily not-thinking-about-the-future when the unthinkable happens. (At least, it’s unthinkable to him.) He’s started to live for the nights he goes out as the Flyer and the evenings with Danny afterwards, and as it gets colder, Claude has to come in earlier. And oh, what a shame, that leaves more time to talk with Danny. Disa-fucking-ppointing. (Claude loves it, though he’ll never admit that. Not that he doesn’t like being the Flyer, but he likes Danny too.)

But all too soon, it gets snowy and icy, and, well, spandex isn’t really made for that. Claude’s out late, close to heading home, when he spots a routine mugging, something he can handle and have a little fun.

Or he thinks he can. He’s confident--because he is Claude _fucking_ Giroux, the Philadephia Flyer, and he has every goddamn reason to be confident--until he makes a drop that would be _perfectly fucking fine_ if it weren’t right over a patch of ice.

He manages to reach his phone and dial Danny, and then he passes out.

\---

Claude wakes up to a bitch of a headache and three times the fuzzy vision that there should be. _Fuck_ , he thinks hazily. Not off to a good start.

His mild annoyance doesn’t last for long, though, because Danny’s face looms into view. “Claude? Claude! Oh thank fuck.”

Huh. Danny doesn’t swear much. Something must have happened, though Claude can’t think of what.

The nurse races in, cheeks flushed. “Morphine, morphine, let’s go people,” she calls, and Claude’s world fades to black again.

\---

They finally let him go a few days later, with a cast around his left ankle and a hockey team’s worth of painkillers. Danny basically carries him out--which Claude definitely does not mind, not that he’s awake enough to argue--and he’s picking up coherency again once they make it home.

“Danny,” he slurs, and Danny smiles and runs his hand through his hair. “Thanks so much.”

“It’s no problem,” Danny says kindly.

“You’re soooo wonderful,” Claude adds, because it’s suddenly _really_ important that Danny know how much he means to Claude. “You’re my favourite.”

Danny grins, wide and easy, right in Claude’s face. “Thanks, Claude. You’re my favourite, too.”

Claude feels himself break out in a grin to match Danny’s. “Really?” he asks, bumping his nose against Danny’s.

“Really,” Danny says, eyes staring right into Claude’s, and Claude isn’t sure if it’s the morphine or just what Danny does to him when his heart starts jumping.

\---

“Danny,” Claude asks, after nearly landing on his face the fourth time he tries the crutches, “What if I wake up in the middle of the night and have to pee?” It’s a legitimate concern. The IV pumped him so full of fluids that Claude’s surprised he hasn’t started leaking out his ears.

Danny snorts. “That’s your problem, honeybunches.”

“Ha-fucking-ha,” Claude says sourly. “It’s your mattress.”

“Fine, fine. You want to yell for me and I’ll come in and help you over?”

Claude shakes his head. “It’ll wake up the boys.”

“Come sleep in my bed, then. You can hit me when you need to get up.” Danny says, smirking at Claude like he knows how many different ways Claude wants to hit that. “You’re going to need the stress relief anyway, since you can’t go out and punch criminals.”

Claude groans. “I was trying not to think about that.” Not being the Flyer feels like a part of him’s gone. No matter how motherly he might feel with the boys, or how distracted he is by pretty much everything about Danny, being the Flyer has always given him something solid to fall back on. Like a hockey player without a stick, or Philadelphia without thugs, or a masked vigilante with no fucking mask and no spandex suit.

“Sorry,” Danny makes a face. “But you really can’t. Not like that.”

“And Danny?” Claude ventures, “I, uh, actually did break something this time.”

“Yeah? I didn’t notice, dumbass. At least now I won’t have to get up to check on you.”

\---

Danny knows that he’s in for Claude sleeping in his bed. But Claude’s pretty sure that Danny doesn’t get _how_ in for it he is, because he doesn’t know how Claude sleeps. Not that it takes Danny long to figure it out.

“Claude,” grunts Danny at three in the morning. “Get the fuck off me, you asshole.”

Claude’s not awake enough to get what’s going on, but he’s--on top of Danny? Sort of? Sideways? With all the blankets? “Yup, nope, yeah,” he mumbles, sliding off of Danny. “Mmbmmsmvmm,” he adds, hoping that Danny understands that.

Apparently he doesn’t, because Danny grumbles a little, rolls onto his stomach, and falls right back asleep. Maybe it’s because Claude’s half-asleep, but that might be the cutest thing Claude has ever seen.

\---

Eventually, they figure out how to make the sleeping arrangements work. Danny, the old man that he is, doesn’t move an inch while he sleeps unless someone forces him to. And if he’s held down, Claude doesn’t move either. So it makes perfect sense for them to sleep with Danny’s arms wrapped around Claude.

After two weeks, Claude starts to feel a little guilty about getting in Danny’s way, so he tries to switch back to his own room. “Danny, I really don’t want to bother you. I should, uh, sleep in the other room again.”

Danny’s face falls a little, and Claude’s heart crumples like the fucking sap he is. “Yeah, I guess so,” he says quietly.

Not that it goes well. Claude tosses and turns, sings to himself, counts criminals jumping over fences of jails (because counting sheep is for wusses), rolls around, tosses and turns again. Finally, he realises that if he keeps this up he’ll slam his ankle around too much, and he is not taking any risks with that, thanks, so he crutches himself into Danny’s room, whispering, “Yo.”

Danny’s eyes fly open in the dark, and Claude can tell that he was awake, too. “I couldn’t fucking sleep,” Claude grumbles, and Danny smiles a little.

“Yeah, me neither.”

And it amazes Claude how comfortable it is, tucking himself back into Danny’s chest, yanking Danny’s arm around himself. “Mmmm,” Danny sighs in his ear, and yeah. Yeah.

\---

Claude wakes up with Danny’s face mashed into his shoulder and his body molded around Claude’s. “Hey,” Danny says, when Claude shifts, and Claude smiles.

“Mmmm, hey.”

Danny pushes his nose into Claude’s shoulder and then pulls his face up to speak. “So you sleeping elsewhere…”

Claude chuckles. “Total failure.”

“Mostly,” Danny says, pulling Claude in closer and wrapping himself into Claude’s back.

Claude sighs, then rolls around, careful to keep himself well within Danny’s encircling arms. “Danny,” he starts, and they’re forehead to forehead, and Claude can’t fucking breathe, Danny’s arms tight around him and everything catching in his chest and god, the morning sun spilling over Danny, and Claude just cannot _deal_ with this right now. Or ever. Seriously.

Danny smiles lazily from under his stupidly long eyelashes. “Claude.”

And then they’re kissing, and Claude really doesn’t know who started it, but that’s absolutely unimportant and Claude could not give a fuck because he’s busy slipping his tongue between Danny’s lips and, god, it’s _Danny_. Claude can’t even bring himself to be his usual morning grouchy, or to notice whether or not his ankle twinges when he rolls on top of Danny, just that this is happening and jerking off thinking about kissing someone is totally different from actually doing it.

Claude takes a moment and resurfaces for air. “Danny?” he says again, brushing his nose against Danny’s, because he has to fucking check on this, because if Danny doesn’t, if it’s not, Claude might fucking break.

But Danny just brushes back and smiles, “Claude,” into Claude’s lips and Claude cannot imagine anything that makes him feel more whole.


End file.
